Fr. Jim Olofson is a priest of the Diocese of Joliet. He currently serves as Vice Rector of St. John Vianney College Seminary at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul. He preached Holy Thursday 2026 at Sacred Heart Church in Lombard, IL.
I am grateful to Fr. Tom for the invitation to preach this evening. As we celebrate the Mass of the Lord’s Supper and listen again to the account of the Last Supper, the Church places before us two extraordinary gifts: the gift of the priesthood and the gift of the Eucharist. These are not simply doctrines to be recalled or explained. They are mysteries to be entered into—realities that shape the very life of the Church.
As many of you know, I work at a seminary, and my life is devoted entirely to the formation of future priests. I spend my days helping young men grow into men of Christ, men of the Church, and ultimately men for others—men who are prepared to lay down their lives in imitation of Jesus.
The seminary where I serve is a college seminary, which means we are focused on the earliest stages of formation. Our seminarians are between eighteen and twenty-four years old, and much of our work is devoted to laying a foundation—something stable and lasting—so that wherever the Lord may eventually call them, they have a deep and enduring grounding in Him.
One of the first lessons we teach these young men is simple, but it is not easy: as seminarians, they are public persons.
Their faces are on posters in parishes. They wear clothing marked with the seminary’s name or their diocese’s crest. They stand out, whether they intend to or not. And because of that, the way they act matters. The way they speak matters. The way they carry themselves matters. This is not because they are celebrities or because they are meant to draw attention to themselves, but because they are preparing for a life that is inherently visible.
Priests are public persons.
Especially in our time, everything a priest does—or fails to do—is noticed. Everything he says—or does not say—carries weight. A priest does not cease to be “Father” when he leaves the sanctuary. He is Father at the altar, but he is also Father at the grocery store, at a restaurant, in a parish meeting, or in a quiet conversation with a family. His words and actions are never entirely private, because they are always, in some way, connected to something greater than himself. He speaks not only as an individual, but as a representative of the Church, and at times, quite literally, in the person of Christ.
And yet, for all of this visibility, there is something profoundly hidden at the heart of the priesthood.
When a man is ordained, he is configured to Jesus Christ in a way that is permanent and indelible. He is drawn into Christ’s own priesthood. This is a gift he could never earn and never deserve. But once he has received it, he must respond to it. He must allow that gift to shape his entire life.
And that response is largely hidden.
It is found in the quiet of prayer, in the daily fidelity to a relationship with the Lord that no one else sees. It is found in the Liturgy of the Hours prayed in a chapel or a rectory. It is found in time spent before the Blessed Sacrament. It is found in the interior work of conversion, of resisting temptation, of persevering through discouragement, of remaining faithful when no one is watching.
It is found, too, in the confessional—perhaps one of the most hidden places in the life of the Church—where the priest becomes an instrument of the Father’s mercy, freeing souls from sin in a way that can never be quantified or measured. This is not the kind of work that draws attention. It is not visible. And yet it is essential.
The priest lives constantly within this tension: a life that is at once deeply public and deeply hidden. And when that tension is lived well, it becomes a powerful means of sanctification. It becomes the path by which a priest is made holy.
Tonight, after Mass, you will be invited to remain here in the church and to keep watch with the Lord. Some of you may stay here; others may visit different parishes. But wherever you go, you are participating in something drawn directly from the Gospel. After the Last Supper, Jesus leads His disciples into the Garden of Gethsemane and asks them to watch and to pray with Him.
We know what happens.
They fall asleep.
They have some awareness that something important is taking place, but they do not grasp the depth of it. They do not see the interior struggle of Jesus—the fear, the anguish, the loneliness of His prayer as He entrusts Himself completely to the Father’s will.
That struggle is hidden.
And yet it is precisely there, in that hidden place, that the work of redemption is unfolding.
Jesus, the High Priest, lives fully within this same tension between what is visible and what is hidden. And every priest who shares in His priesthood will encounter that same dynamic.
But what is true of the priesthood tonight is also true of the Eucharist.
When we look at the Eucharist, what do we see?
We see bread and wine. Ordinary, unremarkable, familiar elements—nothing that would draw our attention or seem extraordinary. And yet, when the priest stands at the altar and calls down the Holy Spirit, when he speaks the words of Christ—“This is my body… this is my blood”—something happens that cannot be perceived by the senses.
Christ becomes truly present.
Body, blood, soul, and divinity.
Hidden, and yet real.
This is the mystery that has captivated the Church from the beginning. St. Thomas Aquinas, one of the greatest theologians in the history of the Church, wrote not only academic works on the Eucharist but also hymns and prayers that express a deep, personal love for this mystery. In one of his hymns, he reflects on the limits of our senses and the necessity of faith. What we see is not what is ultimately real. Our senses fail us here. And so we rely on the word of Christ Himself.
He has said it.
And because He has said it, we believe.
And because we believe, we adore.
It is tempting, when we reflect on this mystery, to think that the problem lies “out there”—that if only the world understood the Eucharist, if only people grasped the reality of Christ’s presence, everything would change. Churches would be full. Faith would be vibrant. The world would be different.
There is some truth to that.
But the deeper truth is more uncomfortable.
The problem is not first the world.
The problem is me.
“Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.”
Each of us carries within us places where faith is weak, where we approach the Eucharist without awareness, without expectation, without the full openness that this mystery deserves. The invitation tonight is not first to fix the world, but to allow the Lord to deepen our own faith—to ask for the grace to see what is truly there, hidden beneath what appears ordinary.
As we enter into the Paschal Triduum, the Church surrounds us with visible signs. Water will be poured. Feet will be washed. Oil will be used for anointing. The cross will be venerated. A candle will pierce the darkness of the Easter Vigil.
All of these are visible.
But each one points beyond itself.
Each one reveals something hidden.
And the grace we ask for in these days is simple: that we might learn to see with the eyes of faith. That we might encounter Christ where He is most truly present—hidden, and yet real—in the priesthood and in the Holy Eucharist.
Because it is there, in what the world overlooks, that God is most fully at work.
